


Seared Arse and First Lie

by hallulawy



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-10
Updated: 2019-06-10
Packaged: 2020-04-24 04:18:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19165678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hallulawy/pseuds/hallulawy
Summary: Two ficlets.First story: Does Aziraphale get his arse seared from carrying that flaming sword around?Second story: The first time Crowley lied to Aziraphale.





	Seared Arse and First Lie

**Author's Note:**

> The second happens after the first so it's somewhat related but could be read separately.
> 
> Aziraphale is too adorable, Crowley is too suave. I need to write something about them.  
> All errors are mine, thank you.

 

**Seared Arse**

  

Crowley lies a whole lot lesser than most devils, but he still does.

Before Aziraphale and he “fraternized” for the following thousands of years, he remained largely a burrowing snake, tunneling around the Garden of Eden while plotting about wisps of mischief. Sometimes when he felt especially distinguished from the toads and flies of hell, he rest within the rich greenery of God’s garden, give or take almost every noon where there's ample sunlight and humidity is high.

When his colleagues or superior questions his action, he said it was to gather intel, a mere step to a larger picture.

He’d call this a truth.

Time after time, he’d observe how the uptight angels act as gardener for their God with nostrils in the air. Sometimes he’d push out a twig or two to stumble the fools as punishment for not watching their steps. He’s been counting and this loud wanker named Gabriel never failed his expectations. The said angel even ripped his robe from his last fall. Crowley hissed in glee when the idiot spluttered with dirt on his face and miracled a new robe for himself in disdain.

And then there’s this peculiar little one.

Angels usually come in pairs or packs (although Gabriel does this thing called "jogging" where he runs around alone like an idiot he is every morning, saying it allows him to understand primitive humans better), but there’s this short and stubby one that works alone. Before Crowley (then “Crawly”) knew his name, he’d call him “Angel”. The others had names, so it remains distinguishable. It just made sense to call this Angel and not the others.

Angel here carries a huge flaming sword to sever overgrown twigs and branches. He’s always working alone. Carrying bricks or watering plants, petting leaves and nurturing The Apple Tree. Doing all these while hanging a flaming sword on his back. Not even six thousand years enabled Crawly to understand how it was possible that the white robe wasn't charred or engulfed in flames. 

On his billboard of "Tripping Angels", this particular Angel got the lowest score seeing as he tripped only once. What's more intriguing is that ever since that faithful fall, Angel’s been dilligently cutting off " _dangerous naughty branches_ " that falls into the walking path and kept his eyes on the ground. Something the others didn't do and would call a waste of time. Although Crawly thought they're all just wasting time. At least Angel is wasting his in a more socially contributory manner.

Ocassionally, the Angel would rest under one of Crawly’s favourite trees and relish the shade. Snoring after he murmured “just a couple of moments and back to work”.

Everytime this happens, Crawly would slither in and examine.

If Crawly is truthful, he’d say this Angel look odd. Cotton hair, chubby cheeks, large eyes, pointed nose and a pair of small pinks lips which conceals two tidy bars of teeth that are round and pearly. He doesn’t look half as sinister as the others. Even when Crawly was an angel, he doubt he’ve seen the likes of him. Angels are immaculate, made with a calculative shine in their eyes and teeth. Lean or broad, they’re all the same.

And he smelled different too. Crawly can’t put his mind to identify the scent. Not pungent, barely there.

_Maybe that’s why he’s alone. Poor thing._

_Carrying a large flaming sword that might have seared his arse more than a couple times. Did he? Oh I should sneak a peek beneath those robes once I’ve got the chance._

_Maybe I can persuade Angel to pass over that big fiery thing for safekeeping, for several eternities or so._

Crawly the snake spits out his tongue to agree with himself.

Angel look like the sort to give things out.

 

After tempting Eve and consequently Adam to consume the apple, Crawly hid within the bushes to observe the ramifications. It's always captivating for a devil to witness the growth of their own seed. Angel looked flustered, his flaming sword still hanging precariously near his arse as he receives an admonishment from Gabriel. The humans are to be banished soon and Angel seems to be of blame. Crawly wonders briefly if they're going to banish Angel too, but quickly get rid of the thought. He's claiming credit over this, isn't he? When hell's trumpet blows, all would know it was Crawly whom tempted Adam and Eve. Angel played no part in this at all.

Crawly's nostrils flare in pride. Now if only he can get his hands on that flaming sword too.

 

Crawly didn’t get the sword, which funnily didn't cause him any displeasure. But his official encounter with Angel was not entirely fruitless.

At least now he know that Angel doesn’t have a seared arse.

 

* * *

 

 

**First Lie**

  

Crawly (now Crowley) remember the first time he lied to Angel (now Aziraphale).

“A portrait? Why?” Aziraphale asks with round eyes.

Crowley shrugged and made a meaningless gesture.

“This person I’m tempting is a painter and he’s been trashing around for the perfect model. He didn’t like my looks, said I was too skinny,” Crowley scoffed.

“But I never had portaits done before, and what if he made me into a caricature worse than Vyšší Brod’s? Oh that may be rude, he might be a splendid artist,” Aziraphale mutters with furrowed brows, fretting as his feet carries him around the room.

“Just give it a wiggle. Maybe he’d reject you immediately because you’re too f-” Crowley paused just as Aziraphale casts his worried gaze upon him. “Flamboyant or something.”

Aziraphale bit his pouty lips, eyes glistening with worry and expectation.

“Angels take pride in inspiring, don’t they? If you need some reassurance, his paintings are a hell lot better than those Byzantine pieces of Gabriel,” Crowley raises his brows suggestively and smiles as Aziraphale looks away to avoid from bursting into laughter.

“You should know, Gabriel takes a lot of pride in those art,” Aziraphale finally giggles.

“Probably wanted to decorate his whole office with those paintings from hell, if it weren’t for his halo,” Crowley says sardonically.

Aziraphale didn’t concur, but his beaming face told enough mirth.

 

* * *

 

The painter literally went down to his knees to thank the gods the moment he saw Aziraphale.

Crowley watched as Aziraphale’s cheeks grew rosy pink at the treatment, eyes so overwhelmed with happiness that it was as moist as wet cotton.

The painter whom Crowley remembered to be pompous carefully led Aziraphale to his drawing room. He asked nicely ( _wasn’t this courteous when he talked to me_ , Crowley thought) for Aziraphale to sit.

“If it’s not too much to ask, my good sir,” The painter asks tentatively, “Can you remove your clothes?”

“My cravat and coat?” Aziraphale starts unbuttoning.

“Yes, and maybe all others,” The painter says and as though suddenly reminded of his manners, “Please?”

Aziraphale sat frozen solid. He opens his mouth twice, looking over at Crowley with wide eyes.

“I, I beg your pardon? I didn’t know-”

”He’s shy. Can’t you just imagine based on his contour?” Crowley says nonchalantly.

“But he’s the perfect model from head to toe, I must recreate every detail meticulously on canvas!” The painter cries.

“My friend, I should confide to you,” Crowley whispers, pulling the painter to a side as he continues spewing persuasion with his snake tongue.

Aziraphale sat nervously for a conclusion and finally the painter returns with a brooding look.

“My good sir, I understand your condition and I apologise for being crass. You don’t have to remove all of your clothes. You can have your socks, shirt and,” The painter almost look like he’s about to shed a tear, “Undergarments. Let us carry on.”

Aziraphale can’t figure out the whole of what Crowley told the man, but he reckon it's far from flattering.

 

Crowley sat in a corner expressionless as Aziraphale poses in his socks, shirt and undergarments. The angel’s contour is still palpable, and Crowley wondered if he should have elaborated his lies further so that Aziraphale didn’t even need to take off his coat.

Just like humans and demons, angels comes in all sizes. Yet Aziraphale seemed to have created a personal size for himself. Left only with few garments, he reveals himself to be almost genderless with a body that is soft and luxurious. To the human eye, it is a tribute from gluttony. But Crowley is of the opinion that Aziraphale has always been the same stature over the years, although he does seem rounder than he first remembered. The contemporary trend for women is plumpness, and Aziraphale though identified as a male, fits the image. Soft breasts, round tummy and tender thighs. The folds and creases of the angel’s shirt gentle under the natural noon light, yet each hugged Aziraphale’s frame like an angelic aura. Perhaps God grew tired of models like Gabriel and Michael, and that’s why Aziraphale was created.

Crowley’s tongue slides carefully in his oral cavity as a dangerous thought sparks.

_Can devils be tempted by angels?_

Aziraphale, always courteous, sat patiently but looks over at Crowley whenever he’s bored. The angel sighed without sighing but his cheeks remain puffy and pink because being the angel he is, he’s still giddy over such a rare occurence. Crowley gave a small smile in return and Aziraphale’s eyes twinkles back.

Crowley could feel his heart thumping a tad faster.

 

Aziraphale was bewildered when the painter sobbed that the portrait is gone. Apparently his studio was robbed yesterday night. Crowley look puzzled himself.

“Would you like for me to pose once more?” Aziraphale enquires compassionately.

“No, that wouldn’t be necessary. I doubt I could ever outdone myself. Not even if I enter a covenant with the devil himself would I be able to recreate it…”

Aziraphale looked over at Crowley worriedly, but Crowley merely glanced back through his dark glasses. After a few sentences of consolation they left the painter to himself, walking away while Aziraphale remains disconcerted.

“I suppose this is the best time for your temptations. Although in accordance with protocol, I should intervene,” Aziraphale says quietly.

“He’s not ripe yet. People like him will start creating masterpieces after a few jugs of ale,” Crowley dismisses his companion’s worries just as he always do. “Give him a couple more decades or so.”

They both went quiet, walking towards a location they never concurred expressly but perhaps done so impliedly. Crowley was thinking of heading to the bar when Aziraphale sighed.

“I didn’t even get to take a glimpse at the painting. Such a shame,” The angel looks down forlornly, “It was my first portrait too.”

Crowley gave no response.

“Did you saw it? Was it any good?” Aziraphale looked at the stony ground, eyelashes fluttering under the striking sunlight.

Crowley had his dark glasses on, so he needn’t avoid the sun. But his throat’s a bit dry and only he knew why.

“No, I didn’t saw it. Shame.”

And that was the first lie.

 

* * *

 

Many years later, paintings depicting plump angels with blond hair and rosy cheeks became mainstream. Hell roared with laughter when one of them got their hands on a piece with winged innocent looking children carrying flower baskets to a young maiden in plain frocks.

They hung it on one of the most conspicuous pillars, and all but Hastur chuckled as they walked by.

_To think humans see angels as weaklings with fat baby limbs!_

Hell was ready to applaud the devil who brought such priceless entertainment, but nobody claimed the credit.

 

When Sandolphon informed Gabriel of this, the Archangel didn’t appreciate the trend at all. He clenched his jaw and announced that he prefer armoured saints as the canonical depiction. When asked which devil was responsible for this, no answers were provided, and thus he returned to his office to admire the Byzantine pieces to imprint their imagery further into his head.

 

Crowley had always kept the painting in his cellar, but it seems the painter never forgot his muse.

The painter crawled out of his slump and grew obsessed with angelic paintings since the incident. The obsession may be due to his dream about meeting one of the purest soul in his life, had the privilege to paint for it only to lose the precious painting as the morning sun bubbled his sweet slumber away. Amidst the yellow sunlight, he cried as he started a canvas anew, wishing to achieve such an apex height in reality. He became famous soon after.

When Crowley saw the following paintings, he formed an opinion as to whether the painter ever reached another pinnacle beyond his "dream".

He didn't.


End file.
